“Do you think that pregnancy is the worst that can happen to a woman? Pregnancy is not a malignance. It is only a problem when people are not prepared to shoulder the responsibility of bringing a child into the world. Don’t you know about the virus? Pregnancy is life. The virus means death.”
“I don’t have the virus!”
“How do you know? And even if you know about yourself, how do you know that I am not carrying AIDS, syphilis, gonorrhea, or any other STD?”
Discomfort had now replaced desire. Kamltl went to take a cold shower to cool his body. Nyawlra waited for him to finish and followed suit. Both clothed once again, Kamltl, in a shirt without buttons, went back to the sitting room, and Nyawlra, in a fresh dress, went to the kitchen.
Kamltl’s mind drifted to life with Wariara. They had never talked about their sex lives before meeting each other; he was surprised by how little he knew about that aspect of her. Recalling their encounter at the Angel’s Corner earlier in the day, he felt uncomfortable in his own body. What if he had caught a virus from their sole intimate encounter and had been about to pass it on to… no, he did not want to think about his possible carelessness. He was grateful to Nyawlra for having put a halt to things, even more so now that she interrupted his thoughts by offering him some tea.
“I’m sorry” he told Nyawlra. “I should not have lost it that way. I have never been so drawn to anyone. Usually I prefer to get to know someone better before this kind of thing happens. But something about you makes me feel that we have always known each other. Maybe it has something to do with our shared experiences today. But I want you to know that I am not trying to excuse my behavior.”
“I am sorry, too. In college I always kept a couple of condoms in my handbag, because even then I believed that people who do not know each other well should protect themselves; because you can never tell who is carrying death into the act of love. When I got married, I stopped; and even after the marriage ended, I continued with the bad habit of not arming myself. But now I should have known better, for nobody knows when she or he might be in a situation where the body overpowers the will. If a person refuses to wear a condom in these days of the deadly virus and he still wants to go the distance, he is my enemy, not my lovemate, and I should not let him touch me. That is why I threw you off, because I thought you were one of those men who think it unmanly to wear condoms.”
“I can hardly criticize you.”
They were now relaxed with each other.
“What was the plastic snake all about?” Kamltl asked in a new key.
“You really thought that it was alive?”
“It seemed lifelike, its eyes roving, its tongue flexing. I am terrified of snakes. I hate practical jokes involving snakes.”
Nyawlra looked hard at his face. No, she and Kamltl were not of the same mind; they had arrived at the gates of Paradise by different routes. All they shared were the beggar’s rags they wore. Nothing more. And yet to her he had a good heart. He had grown up poor; he could be one of her party. Then she recalled that Kaniuru, in spite of his humble background, was now a member of the Ruler’s Youth, protecting the rich against the poor. She checked herself. Kamltl might turn out to be another Kaniuru. Besides, he seemed a loner, the type only drawn by the desires of the spirit.
“These days, no woman is safe walking the streets alone. I carry the snake to help me get out of dangerous situations.”
“No, Nyawlra, you are holding something back,” he said.
“Do you really want to know?” she asked with a bit more passion.
Kamltl felt pulled in opposite directions: he wanted to know, and he did not; he did not feel that he had the will to endure the weight of knowing and the agony of choice. Was certain indeterminacy not better?
Nyawlra saw the hesitation in his face and said to herself: This one is scared. She looked at her watch.
“It is almost dawn. You won’t have to go to the wilderness. Sleep on the couch. I’ll give you a blanket.”
As she headed toward the bedroom, Kamltl persisted despite his fears.
“But you did not really answer my question.”
Nyawlra stopped and turned her head.
“You know the Movement for the Voice of the People?”
By instinct, Kamltl quickly looked over his shoulder before answering.
“I don’t, but you mentioned it. Didn’t the Buler declare it illegal?”
“Yes,” she said, not sure what to make of his skittishness.
“What is the story?” Kamltl asked, not too enthusiastically.
“There are two kinds of saviors: those who want to soothe the souls of the suffering and those who want to heal the sores on the flesh of the suffering. Sometimes I wonder which is right. Sleep well. The couch may not be as comfortable as your leaves of grass, but there is a roof over it,” she said lightly.
“But what does the movement stand for? Who are its members? Its leaders?”
“Someday I’ll tell you more,” she said, wondering about his sudden desire for details. She went to the bedroom, from where she now threw him a blanket.
The guitar from the wall had been disturbed by their play earlier. She adjusted it before climbing into bed.
Kamltl sighed with relief, but relief from what? He was unable to fall asleep; he kept turning over in his mind the events of the last twenty-four hours. As in a dream, he didn’t know where he was headed, he thought, yawning from fatigue.
There was banging at the door. Kamltl, who had fallen asleep, was tied to his bed of dreams by a thousand strands of rainbow colors. Who was waking him in his flower garden? Ah, yes, Paradise. A million-star hotel, with a boundless sky as its roof. Oh yes, he thought, a hailstorm must be kissing the gates of Paradise. How soothing. But the knocking at the door persisted, and Kamltl woke up.
He tiptoed to Nyawlra’s bed and woke her up. They both listened, hoping that the intermittent knocking would cease. It didn’t, and Nyawlra put on a shawl and went to the door.
She hesitated as she opened it.
“Don’t be afraid, mother,” the man said, quickly taking something from his pocket and showing it to her. “I have not come to rob you. I am just a plainclothes police officer.”
“What do you want?” Nyawlra asked gruffly, trying to hide her panic.
“I beg you, please don’t be angry. I am the police officer who was here last night. Well not here, exactly-I mean, I happened to be in Santalucia last night, and in passing I saw something hanging from the wall. When I went home, well, I thought about it. True,
Chagrined, Nyawlra remembered the bundle of make-believe witchcraft hanging from the roof outside. How careless of them not to have taken it down! The magic that had sent the police officer away had led him back to the house, though now he seemed unarmed. She became a little defiant within: So what if he has found us? What could he arrest us for? What crime have we committed? Then she recalled that the dictator of Aburlria had decreed that the Movement for the Voice of the People was illegal. She resolved to remain calm and scrutinize the words of the police officer for anything that might be useful.
“What do you want?” she asked imperiously.
The police officer winced at her tone. He kept looking over his shoulder as if ready to bolt at the first hint of danger. Yet he seemed determined, almost desperate, to unburden himself of something.
“My name is Constable Arigaigai Gathere. I have many matters that weigh heavily on me. Please, mother, I want-please-I would like to see you.”
“Me? You want to see me?” she asked, quite puzzled by all this.
“Yes, you. No, yes, true!
11
